27. Lucy
CHAPTER 27
LUCY
I ’m being kidnapped. That’s what I’ve decided to call it. My roommates are all back and I leave in a couple days for the conference tournament. They decided the best send-off was taking me and my still-swollen cankle out to a karaoke bar tonight.
Are any of us good singers? Absolutely not.
Going out is the last thing I want to do. Every minute I’m not in class, practice, or rehab, I’ve been lying in bed watching rom-coms. It feels therapeutic. Or monumentally stupid. I’m still deciding, but it’s definitely bittersweet.
The girl is always perfection–I mean, all these girls are like barely five feet tall, and I bet none of them have ankles the size and color of a red onion.
The guy is always tall, dark, and handsome–okay, that one might hit a little too close to home. Jordan is nothing if not all those things. Every man in these movies reminds of him, so maybe this isn’t the best idea.
The toughest and most beautiful part is that they all end happily. They overcome insurmountable odds and find their way back to each other. That’s the part I most certainly do not have at the moment .
No fairytale ending in sight.
I’ve cried during every movie, obviously. Why do so many of these girls not have dads? That just feels unfair–to them, to me in my current state, to all girls with daddy issues and abandonment issues.
I grab another tissue and blow as the tears leak out again. Maybe this was the wakeup call I needed. I was getting sidetracked. Basketball needs to be my focus. It’s the only thing actually within my control. Even when I get injured, I have the power to work my way back. But no matter how hard I work with Jordan, I can’t force him to be with me.
Basketball is controllable.
It provides me attainable goals. It’s always been the thing I can escape to when it feels like the world is collapsing around me. After my dad died, I spent every day on the court. I turned off my brain. And my heart.
I dribbled so hard, the seams started coming apart on my ball. I shot so many times, I tore the net. I pushed the despair away until I finally reached a breaking point. I thought I could outrun the pain, but it caught up to me eventually.
Cue anxiety attacks.
Before my first few middle school games, I had to sprint off the court during warmups. I’d hide in the bathroom until it passed, and I wasn’t old enough to know what was going on or ask for help. I would sit on the toilet while the world closed in on me.
At that point in my life, grief was such a constant companion that I assumed I would never find the light again.
Thankfully, my mom is observant. She picked up on the pattern and started questioning me. Eventually I started therapy and worked my way to a healthier place.
A place where I came to terms with the absence of my dad.
A place where basketball could be fun again.
But even when it wasn’t fun, basketball was always there. It was my constant through every stage–the misery, the heartache, the joy, and everything in between. I always had this game.
It doesn’t abandon me.
It doesn’t break my heart–okay, well, sometimes it kind of does, but it’s not quite as bad as when a person does it.
It doesn’t make me dream of what life could be.
I never should’ve let myself forget what my top priority has been since I got to college.
The walls I had built up were there for a reason. The risk of someone leaving has always been enough to keep me guarded–daddy issues and all. Life is full of enough unavoidable hurt as it is. Why allow one more person to have that kind of power over you?
I couldn’t prevent my dad from getting cancer and leaving me too soon.
I can prevent someone else from getting that close.
I’ve never been able to trust that people have the right intentions. Or like me for the right reasons. I’ve tied my identity to basketball for so long that other people do too. How do I know that if things go south, they’ll want to stick around?
Case in point: Jordan. The myriad reasons why things had to end were tied in many ways to basketball. And success. And money. These things complicate what should be simple.
Love should be simple.
I let out a sob. A rather loud one. Britt is beating down my door so fast, I wonder if she had her ear to my door.
“Hey, you’d better be getting ready, gimp!”
I’m really loving the new nickname. So cute and endearing.
“Yeah, uh, I’m absolutely not coming. For a million reasons, I have no desire to go out tonight.”
She storms in. “For a million reasons, you are coming anyway. Don’t worry, we aren’t expecting you to drink or sing or do basically anything. But you need to get out of this hermit hole. It’ll do you some good to take your mind off–well, everything you’ve got going on at the moment–and do something fun.”
I hate that she’s making sense.
Sighing, I hold my hands up in submission. “Fine. But if I’m coming, I’m looking like this. I have no one to impress.”
Britt gives me a once-over. “Oh, honey. No, no, no. Have you looked in a mirror recently?”
I shrug. “I’m sure I look like a homeless goat, but I don’t have the energy or the desire to get myself cute.”
Checking her watch, she steps out and yells for AJ and Kya to come in.
“All right, ladies, we need to work a Princess Diaries -level transformation, and we have approximately thirty minutes to do so.”
All three of them look perfect–gorgeous hair and makeup, outfits showing off just how much work athletes do to keep their bodies finely tuned. I’d happily be their foil for the evening, but apparently that’s not in the cards.
Britt continues like she’s hosting a game show. “AJ, hit the music and raid the closets. Kya, you’re on hair duty. As for me, I’m about to make those bags under your eyes wish they’d never been born.”
“I’m starting to wish I’d never been born,” I grumble, though I’m secretly grateful for them. I’m also suspicious. Why do they care so much about getting me out of the house? And my appearance? We’ve had many nights when we went out in sweatpants and our hair in messy buns.
Something’s up.
But I don’t argue because this feels like a free spa. While I’m primped and polished, they fill me in on the drama brewing within each of their respective teams. Two hitters on the volleyball team found out they were being played by the same guy, one of the soccer players left a flirty comment on Tyler’s last post–a fact Britt was the most bothered by–and the track team is a mess of intersquad dating and breaking up.
I turn off my brain and take in the hum of gossip. Then Kya grabs my arm excitedly, pulling me out of my state of bliss.
“Oh, my gosh, Lucy. I totally forgot to ask you about what I heard! Did you go off on Sasha? I heard about it from Jeremy, a high jumper, whose girlfriend Jill lives across the hall from a group of freshmen on your team.”
My face turns red. Even though I felt justified, I hate that I snapped like that. I’m also mortified that almost everyone has heard about it. I shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s embarrassing to know that I’m a topic of gossip.
So, I try to deflect.
“I’m struggling to wrap my brain around all the people you just mentioned.”
Britt cuts in. “Wait. Is it true, though? Did you finally put her in her place?”
I lift my hands to cover my face, but Britt grabs them. “No! Don’t mess up your makeup! And I’m going to assume by your reaction that it’s true.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and nod.
AJ starts whooping and cheering, Britt is clapping, and Kya tries to fight her smile, but fails.
“Thank the Lord. We’ve been waiting for this for years. She’s such a snake—she had it coming and she knows it.”
AJ knows all the gritty details of Sasha’s betrayal. Kya chimes in with hushed tones, like she’s afraid someone might be listening.
“I’m all for turning the other cheek, but I’m so proud of you, Lucy. You didn’t deserve anything she did to you.”
Britt is now up dancing around the room. “Ding dong, the witch is dead!”
I yank her back to the floor. “I didn’t kill anyone!”
Britt holds my hands and gets serious. Looking into my eyes, her tone is genuine–although her words are anything but. “You might as well have. Bursting the bubble of someone who always believed herself to be untouchable? A true work of art.”
I have the most loyal friends, and for the hundredth time this week, a lump lodges itself in my throat. I blink fast, hoping to salvage the makeup. “Thanks, guys.”
Sensing the impending tears, they drop the topic and fan my face instead, keeping the crying at bay. AJ brings in my outfit, consisting of mostly borrowed clothes from her own closet, Kya finishes my hair, and we are ready to go within the allotted thirty minutes Britt gave us.
It’s a blessing we’re nearing spring weather because the outfit AJ chose leaves a lot of skin uncovered. The lace tank top and leather skirt combo is finished off with an oversized blazer and knee-high boots. She claimed it was the best way to cover my–in her words–“disgusting stump of a foot.” In my defense, the swelling has gone down and I can walk without limping. It’s just that the coloring rivals that of a moldy prune.
It’s a little edgier than what I’m used to, but I can’t deny that I look good. These ladies worked some real magic. Maybe even more impressive than the look is the fact that they were able to take my mind off Jordan. This is the longest I’ve gone without thinking about him since the breakup.
We walk the few blocks down the street to the Alley Cat, another dive bar that makes up our robust Maverick City Main Street. Finding a booth on the back edge of the wall, I slide in with my root beer and spend the first few minutes people watching.
And hiding.
It’s only kind of working. A variety of people stop to wish me luck at the tournament. I give all my very rehearsed answers to their questions: “Yes, my ankle is feeling much better, thank you.” “The swelling is definitely going down.” “You’re so right, it could have been much worse.”
I’ve heard this song before and done this dance. I just need to rotate through all my planned responses. I appreciate people’s concern, but it gets exhausting to feel like I always need to be “on.” It’s the main reason I dragged my feet about coming tonight.
Or one of them.
The world freezes around me as the other reason walks through the door.
It’s been only a few days since I last saw him, but it might as well be a year. He steps in with some new high-top Air Jordans, a tight sweater, and his trademark gorgeous curly hair. My breathing is picking up just watching him walk across the room.
He hasn’t seen me yet. But I feel eyes on me.
I whip around to see all my roommates watching my reaction. My eyes grow wide.
“You guys didn’t really think…”
Kya stares at the floor. The other two glance at each other, doubt written all over their faces. My head drops back and I examine the weird stains on the ceiling in defeat. I feel like an idiot for not seeing this coming.
“You parent-trapped me?”